Five Times Haymitch and Effie Insulted One Another
by sunshine2006578
Summary: ...and one time they didn't. Rated T for language, R&R!


_01._

This is the first time he's ever met Effie Trinket, and he thinks that she just might be some new torture the Capitol has cooked up especially for him. (As if they haven't taken enough of his sanity).

She's busy babbling to this year's pair of tributes; two emaciated Seam rats, the boy no more than fifteen, the girl only barely thirteen. He knows they won't last two seconds in the arena, and so far he's been pretty successful at ignoring them. His vision is kind of hazy anyway, he'd broken out the strong stuff last night in preparation for today, and he thinks he just might be able to get by with not even looking at them. He won't have to know their faces. (He's not sure that he has room on the back of his eyelids for any more faces).

He lets out a loud belch just to see the Capitol woman flinch, and snickers under his breath when she does.

But then her screechy, accented voice is directed towards him, and its his turn to flinch. "Well, Mr. Abernathy, _you're_ their mentor. Don't you have anything to say to them? A first piece of advice, maybe?"

_He tries he tries he tries he tries _but there those two faces are, invading his retinas and implanting themselves there. Two more faces that he'll have to stare at every time he closes his eyes from now on. Two more corpses that will forever more blink back at him, because they're as good as dead. He registers bright green eyes, bright like leaves and perfect Capitol limes, eyes that immediately copy themselves onto the image of the little girl in his head, and pale, almost-white chapped lips that are bleeding already in the corners and down the middle that belong to the boy.

And he snorts, because it really is funny, in a way. "You want my advice? Try the chocolate cake."

And he walks (stumbles) out.

Effie Trinket follows him. Of course she follows him.

"_What_ was _that_?" He didn't think it was possible for her voice to go up yet another octave, but it has.

"_That_ was advice. It was what you asked for, wasn't it?"

"I meant advice on strategy and the Games and most importantly, _public appearances_!"

He briefly wonders why he considers himself to be so callous and soulless when clearly, the one with an essence made entirely of ice is right behind him, stepping on his heels with fancy Capitol shoes.

He doesn't justify that with a response, and makes to open the door to his bed, but it's slammed shut suddenly by a manicured hand, and he whirls around and glares and wonders if he could get away with breaking her neck.

"You _useless_, _pathetic_ old _drunkard_! Why, I never-"

"Stop your incessant whining you bow-legged bitch of a lap-dog!" He growls, and Effie Trinket looks so shocked it brings a _genuine _smirk to his face, not even a sarcastic or grim one.

This time, when he opens the door to his bed, no one stops him.

The boy makes it a full fifteen steps into the arena. The girl makes it six.

* * *

_02._

He's vomiting into the bushes as their train refuels one year on the way to the Capitol. This girl has brown eyes, is seventeen, but incredibly malnourished and weak and of course she stood no chance, none of them ever stood any fucking chance.

(_His _girl had once had brown eyes too, the exact color of this tribute's).

He stands and wipes his mouth, the world spinning around him and he doesn't know if it's the alcohol or the grief, which means he _needs more alcohol _because there should never be any doubt. It should always be the drink.

The only thing that stuck out in his mind about the boy were three scars on his arm, thin and all the same length, like deep claw marks from a cat.

Effie stands on the steps of one of the cars, scowling at him in disgust. "There's not much use in me coming out for a bit of fresh air when you're out here soiling it, you _ghastly_ man!"

Effie isn't very good at insulting people. She doesn't cuss very often. It would offend her manners. Still, he knows an abrasive tone when he hears one, and it makes him so angry that he spits at her.

"You damn people soil everything else," he snarls. "Just thought I'd finish the job."

This time she's the one that walks away, but her impossibly tight skirt makes her scuttle.

* * *

_03._

"You have the most piss-poor skills for cards of any woman I've ever met."

What the hell else is there to do here, while the tributes hack away at each other on the screen? He doesn't need (want) to watch. All the means eventually boil down to the same end.

Effie sniffs delicately, glancing at the screen and then quickly back down at her cards as their boy tribute is decapitated messily. She doesn't even flinch, and he can't decide how to interpret her stony expression caked underneath ten pounds of makeup.

Her next words shock him.

"And _you_, Haymitch, have the most piss-poor face of any man I've ever met."

It's immature and stupider than anything she's thrown at him over their years together, but Effie Trinket just said _piss_.

He tells himself that the slight feeling of discomfort (the sting) that appears randomly in his chest is because of her more-vicious-than-usual insult, and not because their little girl is screaming on screen, her voice ricocheting through the large Capitol viewing room. The Careers are particularly nasty this year. The bloodbath at the Cornucopia is more of a slaughter than usual.

So he sighs, because feelings are the first sign that he needs to refill his glass, and mutters, "I fold."

He gets up out of his chair, then throws a "fuck you" over his shoulder. Just for good measure.

* * *

_04._

"Hello, Effie. Nice outfit this year. Pink looks good on you; it makes you look like you actually have tits. Or did you get one of those ridiculous enhancement surgeries you Capitol people are so fond of?"

Her eyes widen to the size of platters because this is the first time he's ever referenced her _lady parts_ and just who did he think he was?

The words are out of her mouth before she even has time to process them. "Fuck you, Haymitch."

Then it's time to go out in front of the Justice Building of 12 and play the video and the anthem and listen to the treaty.

Then Haymitch is trying to _grope her_ in front of all of _Panem_ and she's never been so humiliated. She just knows it's because of his remark earlier and her response, and she wonders if perhaps he might be a morphling addict, too, because what man in their right (or drunken) mind would do that to her?

She collects herself of course, she always does.

And this is the worst part.

She feels hatred as she reaches into that glass Reaping ball, hatred for all of those little slips of paper that threaten her, hatred for herself for picking the one that will kill not only the name printed on it, but a piece of her as well.

She keeps a smile on her face, and it's not entirely false because the girl is always somehow the hardest to pick, and it's over for another year. She unfolds the slip, and the name spills from her lips, and she feels a slight twinge somewhere deep inside her, because it's a beautiful name.

"Primrose Everdeen."

There's a little blonde girl shaking so visibly you can see it even on the cameras, and then there's another girl, a much older one, screaming _over and over and over_ and it takes Effie a moment to realize the words the older girl is screaming.

"I volunteer! I _volunteer_!"

Effie beams, because finally there is attention. Finally there is something _happening, _instead of the usual execution line_._ She feels proud of this older girl for being so brave, and she feels so elated to wipe her hands of the death of at least one girl because this one brought it all upon herself.

Her name is Katniss, and while it's not as pretty as the little girl's name, it'll do.

* * *

_05._

She's sobbing and she can't stop and she doesn't think she'll ever be alright again. Pulling out that single slip of paper from the Reaping ball had been the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, and not just because it'd been so difficult to catch.

How could her Capitol do this? How could they send Katniss and Peeta back into the Games? How could they take the one thing (two things, but then, Katniss and Peeta are more like _KatnissandPeeta_; one thing) she'd ever truly loved away from her?

Haymitch sighs, and he sounds bone-tired from his perch on the couch. "Would you stop that infernal wailing, woman? You're fucking _insufferable._"

"And you're a big fat mean jackass with no fucking soul!" She screeches, her voice breaking, and she throws the entire tumbler of liquor at his head.

He's so wasted he doesn't even feel it when it shatters against the back of his skull and the amber liquid soaks (ruins) his favorite shirt. However, he grudgingly admits to himself that she's got surprisingly good aim.

* * *

_...01._

He's staring at her, and he doesn't understand how she's not dead.

Effie Trinket should not be able to survive Capitol torture. Or a revolution in general. But she has, and he doesn't understand how she's not another of the endless corpses that assault his eyes.

"Katniss is okay," he says, and that's _such a fucking lie_, because Katniss is not okay. As a matter of fact, she probably won't ever be okay again. But still, her heart is currently beating. That counts, doesn't it?

Effie thinks so, because a tiny glint of her old spark comes back into her eyes underneath the slightly matted gold wig.

"Peeta is fine, too." _Lie_.

She nods slowly.

There's a silence for a long time.

There's so much emotion, emotion that he knows he'll never be able to drown in liquor before feeling, so he just lets it come, and he sits as stiffly as a board until it's over.

Then he sags back against his chair. Exhales once. Then, "You're strong."

Effie glances at him in surprise. A phantom smile flickers across her lips, the corners of them twitching, then it's gone.

Her voice is hoarse and tired and dazed when she whispers, "And you're… very special."

And it's so much like the innocent, naïve, peppy little Effie of yesteryear that he can't help but offer her a celebratory drink.

Because _this_, ladies and gentleman, is how a war ends.


End file.
